Where the Winds Roar
by empiricallyholmesandwatson
Summary: Joan Watson's life is scattered with words: simultaneously teeming and empty. She tries to keep up pace to learn them; peel them off letter by letter, sound by sound. But time never waits. It didn't, and it never will.


**Note: Please do excuse my medical knowledge. It's terrible. I am quite conflicted about this. One moment I will love it, the other I will wholeheartedly despise it. Do help me out. And yes, in Season 2, Sherlock's character development from 'she's the love you love most in the world' to 'a year apart from Watson in London' is quite weird. I will try to justify it in this fic somehow. Just keep in mind, I might fail.**

Sometimes, she wishes to stop and breathe. And breathe again. To throw everything around her far, far away and stop in time. To look at the surrounding; at the withering ambiance all around her, and close her eyes. Close her eyes without any introspection: without any feelings or emotions.

It's a humdrum routine of life, and the endless list of homicides and violence do everything to make life seem _livelier; _more interesting and much more exhilarating. But Joan knows that she won't last long, and neither will Sherlock.

But the time will. The time will continue to go down with innumerable _ticks and tocks_ and if she tries to keep up the pace, Joan knows that her body will eagerly count down the seconds to degeneration. She forgets that sometimes.

_Actually, most of the time sounds more reasonable_.

Hence, in every moment possible she clenches her fist and feels the blood run through her veins, keen to reach their respective destinations.

It all starts here, between the bees and Clyde. The learning starts here, the failing starts here; the bonding starts here and the degenerationstarts _here_.

The instant she wakes up in the morning, something feels different to her. Of course, people have stopped to remind her that _her_ partner has disappeared without any trace: one day, one decision, and one reflex breaking everything that they ever had.

_Of course they have. It's been a year. _

She is better now. She is not someone's partner anymore. Someone's associate.

No, she is something more than that. She is a consulting detective of one, and she is surviving. She is breathing. She is solving. Joan Watson is thriving.

Joan does feel a pang of guilt every time she lets selfishness into her head, but she knows that's the way the world works. _Really, that's the way Sherlock worked. _Everything about him: what he wanted, what he liked, what he didn't like, what bothered him, what didn't bothered him, how he felt, how he didn't feel, what he knew, him, him and _him. _

_God forbid Sherlock doesn't like this decision because it's not his way. Sherlock doesn't like the fact that Joan Watson is moving out of the Brownstone, so he will take matters into his own hands. He will leave forever, so he doesn't have to deal with anything. _

Within seconds, her hand is curled tightly and her nails are digging into her flesh. Her phone rings loudly beside her, and Joan sighs in relief.

"A fresh murder case for you Joan. Wonder what your new record will be." Marcus' voice seems overly fresh for an early morning murder. Only one reason comes to mind: _far too much coffee. _

"You need to make me a certificate or something very soon, looking at the rate at which I am closing cases." And her voice is overly sarcastic for an early morning start.

"I'll let Captain know then." He suppresses a chuckle.

"Alright. Give me half an hour to get there." She ends the call, and stands up. It's not a nice day in New York today, and the rain is pouring down outside.

_Great day to commit a murder. _

She opens her bedroom door, and pauses in her path. Entering the main foyer apprehensively is Sherlock, and a woman who looks far too young. These excellent deduction skills are now coming to use: _new apprentice. _For a brink of a moment, she feels sympathy for the woman standing innocently beside him and Lestrade's words come far too quickly to her mind.

_You'll figure him out as well. _

Sherlock looks up, and hesitates in his step.

"Watson-" _It's not a nice day in New York. _

"Sherlock." She rather prefers the indifferent tenor in her voice nowadays.

The woman beside him casts a furtive glance to both of them. "Would anyone care to explain what's going on here?"

_Déjà vu is really not a nice thing. _

"Winter, this is Watson, my part-" Joan nearly laughs out at the ridiculousness of the name Winter.

"-former colleague. Joan Watson. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Winter."

"I'm Kitty. Nice to meet you too." They shake hands formally, knowing that there is tension hanging stealthily in the air. She seems nice enough. This is her only chance to escape from the web of Sherlock. Speaking from experience, Joan knows it is not a nice thing.

Instantaneously, Kitty Winter shrieks in realisation. "Damn it, I forgot my suitcase at the airport." Sherlock just rolls his eyes at her remark.

"Hence you should leave immediately, Miss Winter." She nods and runs out of the Brownstone; hair flailing behind.

Joan knows that even the word pity wouldn't be able to summarise her thoughts on the new apprentice. One day, she'll figure him out as well.

When the door to the Brownstone bangs shut, the tension increases in a proportional degree to the seconds of time. Sherlock steps forward, and then steps back. As per usual, Joan stands and watches him squirm. It's a very beautiful sight.

"Watson, how-how've you been?" He knows his guilt, and his eating him alive.

"As well as I can be, thank you. It's been a great year." His eyes snap up in shock at her remark, and Joan dares him to come closer. She dares him to make her finally tick. He accepts the challenge. Really, they are still the argumentative debaters.

"I presume you're here for a few days to solve one of the cases assigned by MI6."

He fidgets violently under her glare. "I-I was going to let-"

"Let me know? You didn't need to, Sherlock. I had it all figured out the day after you left for London."

"I couldn't calculate-"

Her lip twitches, indicating her strong displeasure, and she sneers. "Calculate what? The number of your flight to London; or the number of people you didn't tell in New York City; or the number of times you sent one of your protectors to _look out_ for me? What couldn't you calculate, Sherlock Holmes?"

Joan is trembling furiously, and she takes a strong step towards Sherlock until they are inches apart. His face is older now: with wrinkles and creases: but he is still the man she knew. The once great consulting detective is not meeting her eyes. He never will.

Joan Watson will not cry. She will _not_ shed a tear for the partner who disappeared without notice.

"I was scared something-"

"_Scared?_ _You_ were scared?!"

"We should leave things in the past, my dear-"

"I am not your 'my dear Watson'. And talking about past, you are right. We really should leave things in the past. You were my past: a former partner, and hence I am saying this very nicely: _get out now_. And please don't wreck that young woman as well like you did with me. I rather prefer she be of use to a much better company such as Scotland Yard than an indifferent man like you. And as I said, _please do get out._"

She holds the door open for him, until he picks up his bag and is on the verge of breaking down into tears. It doesn't budge her. This is her house, and it's her decision. When he stays in the spot far too long, she breathes out in exasperation and with clenched teeth, says.

"_Get out of my house, Mr Sherlock Holmes." _

And then he falls. A bullet shot. His suitcase is thrown across the room, and by the time Joan rushes to his figure, the shooter is gone and Sherlock is very, very still.  
For the first time in her life, Joan Watson panics. She knows she has medical experience, she knows she should call 911 immediately and she knows that there isn't enough time, but still she panics.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" She shakes him furiously and he murmurs to her.

"_Joan." _She knows it's the cue for his final statement. And even though she is resentful of the man who can be this selfish, Joan knows that she will never let him go. Sherlock will always be Sherlock, and no he can't do this to her.  
One hand applying pressure on his wound, she swiftly dials 911 and waits beside him. By the time Sherlock is quickly bundled up in the ambulance, and by the time Captain Gregson and Marcus have rushed from the crime scene to the Brownstone, her hand is covered in blood.

_Sherlock's blood. _

The blood is drying faster and faster, leaving all the remnants of him holding her hand and slowly letting it go, and her staring at the pool of blood on the floor. His suitcase. A beautifully decorated picture of _Euglassia Watsonia_ lying on the floor, with a tiny note attached to it in his cramped handwriting.

A woman takes a seat beside her in the hospital, and Joan turns to acknowledge her. It's Kitty Winter. Her eyes emit genuine sympathy, and Joan swallows a thick lump down her throat.

"I am so sorry. I should've-"

"It's not your fault, Kitty."

"You know, back in London, he used to talk about you. Always saying Watson this, Watson that."

"No, really it's fine-" No one is listening to her right now, and she feels vulnerable.

"When I was his apprentice, I learnt about you. Not directly of course, but I heard him murmuring your name in his sleep. Some days I heard him play the violin. When I asked him about you, he hated it. He really did. Then I did my own work, and learnt that you were his former partner." She offers a wry smile and Joan accepts it. The story is oddly familiar.

"I was very jealous at the start; eager to be better. But funnily enough, the more I got to know you indirectly, the less jealous I was. The more I learnt about you and Sherlock as partners, the less I wanted to be in between all of this. I can never be as selfless, wonderful and brilliant as you Joan and I can never take your place as a partner with Sherlock. I can hope to be as good as you someday, but it's a fruitless thought. Believe it or not, I only came here to meet the great Joan Watson. I knew Sherlock -as good as he is- couldn't keep going on like this. He wanted to return; in fact he never even intended to leave New York in the first place. You are his centre of gravity and I am so, so sorry about rushing out like that. I didn't leave my suitcase at the airport, but rather it was just a way to leave you two alone to talk and I didn't know he was going to get-" When she hears a noise, Kitty Winter lifts her head to see Joan Watson cease a sob within herself.

She mumbles a few apologies again, and lifts her hand to put over hers.

"Everything will be okay. I am confident that he will recover. If you need anything, don't hesitate to let me know. Alright?" Kitty tries her best to reassure Joan, who is shaking involuntarily.

She nods quietly. "Thank you."

"I'll be back with lunch. Take care of yourself." Kitty stands up, squeezes her shoulders lightly and disappears. Joan doesn't know how to react. There's only way to let herself know if he will be okay. Even though her feet have gone entirely cold, Joan drags herself to the window of the room and blankly gazes at Sherlock lying connected to IV drops, and wires running through his body.

He seems to have aged twice as much, and is bundled like a tiny child in his sleep. It breaks her heart to see him defenceless like this, but Joan knows she has to be strong. For him. For the bees. He is back but with a bullet lodged in his skull and she knows losing hope would be absolute disaster. The rational part of her brain should kick into action, lest something go wrong.

_Verisimilitude. _

It's her way to ensure things are manageable.

*****  
_His throbbing head. Hospital. White walls. Flowers. Teddy bears from Gregson and Bell. Clyde. Get well soon cards. Personal notes. Skirt. His scarf. Messed hair. Dark circles.. Closed eyes. Watson. _

"Watson." His voice is too hoarse, but he manages to muster a smile.

Joan's eyes snap open, and she blinks. _Once. Twice. Thrice. _She doesn't speak, but stares and stares. It's unnerving.

"How long have I been unconscious?" It feels like as his head has been fixed into one position.

"Long enough. One week, nine days, ten hours, twenty minutes, six seconds and five milliseconds." She sounds similar to a robot repeating her caretaker's orders, or it might be his head. He hopes for the latter.

"That's quite a sleeping record for me, hm?" A gruff laugh comes out of his mouth, but instead of making things better, it's both their straws to break. The nurse opens the door to see two adults: the patient and his partner: crying overwhelmingly and she does a double take to the doctor's room.

Sherlock stretches his hand towards her, but the further he goes the further the wires pull him back. The further he tries to move, the sharper the pain becomes. But he keeps on going. Nothing can stop him from getting her hand. She seems him struggling, and shifts her chair a little closer until his hand is in his reach. He keeps on going.

Finally, his hands come into contact with hers, and he manages to clasp it tightly. A sense of déjà vu comes far too quickly for them to comprehend.

"I apologise."

Joan shakes her head in denial, and tightens her grip on his hand.

"No, Sherlock-"

"No Watson. Let me, please. It's been far too long." He tries to seek solace in her presence.

"My apologies cannot redeem any of my previous actions, or any for that matter. I shouldn't have haphazardly left New York. To be honest, I do not know how to deal with any circumstance properly," he adds a wry grin and motions into the air with his free hand, "and you deserve to know this." He chokes on his words, and Watson's grip slightly loosens on his hand. He knows that she knows. _Doesn't she always?_ Sherlock Holmes doesn't want to meet her eyes, again and again and again.

"I-" He begins to gather the courage to tell her, but Joan is too quick for him.

"-relapsed."

"In London. My father found me lying on the streets."

"The packet of heroin in the book." She is gazing curiously at him, and he can clearly see the tinge of disappointment in her eyes before she subtly covers it up. Her hand disentangles from his and falls mechanically by her side.

The doctor storms in with his team, at the news of his patient and the next moment, she has slipped out of the room. Before he is swarmed by people, Sherlock sees a glimpse of his dear Watson give a fleeting glance through the window before vanishing.

_He needs the drugs more than anything now. No. He cannot disappoint Watson again. He won't. He won't lose her again. She is not one to be toyed with. No. He can't. He won't. _

His hands dig into his flesh as his eyes flutter close. It's a long sleep to recovery, and a longer one to redemption.

Joan knows exactly where to go. Out of all the people, she knows the person who will understand her best.

Ms Hudson opens the door with a welcoming smile, and engulfs her in arms.

"Joan, it's great to see you. How are you?"

"Okay. Sorry, but I needed to talk to you about something." She takes comfort in her presence.

Leonora flashes another charming smile, and waves her apology away.

"There's no need to apologise Joan. Anything I can do. What would you like? Coffee? Tea?"

"Tea would be nice, thanks." Her hands are shaking, and she knows that Leonora has noticed it. There's no point in hiding it, but she would rather like it to stop. Joan watches her prepare tea. Sometime in her imaginings, she turns into Sherlock and both of them are in the Brownstone working on the cases. She sees the bullet clearly: an asteroid towards earth. A dart to bullseye. A bull to a red flag.

Joan sees the bullet swiftly passing her eyes, and hitting Sherlock, pulling him to oblivion. And then there are more victims in front of her eyes: Captain Gregson, Marcus, Mrs Hudson, Emily, her entire family: and the lines just keep getting bigger and bigger, and her heart constricts more and more until there's no option but to let her fear out. It's been far too long, and she doesn't think she can hold it in any longer.

_No. Joan is strong, and she won't lose. She will fight and she'll win. _

The winds breezes by, and she jumps up in fright as the curtains dance in rhythm around her. Marcus comes in through the door, oblivious of Joan's presence and plants a kiss on Leonora's forehead.

Leonora murmurs something to him, and he turns around to see Joan sitting still on the sofa.

"Joan?" Both of them take a step towards her, to see her shaking. Instantly, they assume the worst.

"Fine. Sherlock's fine. Good, great. Yeah, everything's alright." Her sentences aren't even cohesive anymore, and she has lost count of the minutes.

"Joan, you're shaking." Leonora takes a seat beside her, and puts a hand around her shoulder. Marcus' hand is on the phone as he drags a chair towards the two women.

Before she can speak, a call interrupts them all. Marcus picks it up.

"Captain, everything alright?"

The next few minutes fly by. She feels Mrs Hudson's hand on her shoulder, comfortable yet tense. She keeps her eyes on Marcus' worried glance as he drives them all to the hospital. They all know Sherlock is awake, and they are all eager to finally meet him.

Joan feels sick; the bile rises elegantly up her throat and she gulps it down with a drop of water. It's one against one. She hates this. Joan hates things. Sometimes, she stops herself from saying that out loud. She ceases herself from letting everyone know her thoughts. But, in one form or another, Sherlock figures it out. She shouldn't be surprised. It's Sherlock Holmes, the genius whose mind works at the speed of lighting. It's Sherlock Holmes, who deduces things in the blink of an eye. It's Sherlock Holmes, who is absolutely horrible at making decisions but takes them anyway. It's _Sherlock Holmes_, who tries his hardest to hide his weaknesses, the tremors in his hands, the tears in his eyes, the nightmares at night, but fails to. It's Sherlock Holmes, who abandons you for a year, then evaluates his thought processes, returns and expects forgiveness instantly. He's the arsehole. He's the genius. He's the most indecisive person she has ever had the misfortune of meeting. But he's her best friend.

_Although, she thought he was. _

She's not too sure now. Not after the London fiasco. Not after the relapse. Not after returning to New York and expecting things to be the same. Not after getting shot, and making more enemies but still not _telling _her. She can't forgive him for fending for himself without a partner in crime. Joan knows that Sherlock won't work without her, and his stubborn attitude will get him nowhere. But deep, deep inside her, where the roaring of winds take place and the soft words are thrown ruthlessly aside, she understands.

She's just like him, but the difference in Joan Watson is that she is a connoisseur at hiding it meticulously.

As they near the hospital, she puts on the face everyone expects her to have. Doing things for others has turned into a career, and it's far too late to step back. Leonora gives her hand a light squeeze before they all rush out of the car.

When her eyes meet his through the glass window, she stops in her tracks. He has the wounded look on his face, and she _hates_ that look. She stops and stares at the beeping monitors, the teddy bears, the get well notes, the flowers, before it all comes back to him, him and him. His hands are limp by his side, but Sherlock's eyes won't leave. Everyone rushes in, but she stays back. She stays in the same hospital hallway, and she won't let a tear drop willingly. Her hands are dying to hear the click of the door opening and smell the aura of relief but she won't go inside. Joan Watson is just as stubborn as him.

"Holmes, we had too many cases to handle." Inside the room, Captain Gregson tries to fill the comfortable silence with needless banter. Sherlock lips tug upwards in defeat.

"I am confident Watson was successful in solving them all." His eyes are sleepy, and he offers a tired nod.

"She solved them all." A bright twinkle in Sherlock's eyes is enough for her to turn her head around and face the wall. She can't see him now: not when he is proud of her achievements, not when all he sees is her achievements, her progress, her success even though he is attached to several wires. She won't cry. Crying is for cowards. Joan Watson is not a coward. She wasn't, isn't and never will be.

Ten minutes later, when she has calmed her breathing and Marcus has laid a hand on his forehead as a reassurance, and Captain Gregson has promised to fulfil his never-ending demands, and Leonora has let a tear escape, Joan steps in the room. Everyone has left for their errands, and Sherlock is staring defeated at the ceiling. He surreptitiously glances at her as she strides in, all composed and calm, but her hands give it away. They are trembling furiously, even though she has stuffed them in her coat pocket.

Even on medicinal narcotics, Sherlock Holmes can see the damage he has done. He can see how his stupid decisions have affected others close to him. He can see how his fiascos have had a final toll on everyone. He knows it's too late to apologise. He knows that these stupid skills from his father: these skills that lead him to nowhere: will come to no use now.

Holmes knows that his forte is being a disappointment to others, from the day he was born to the day he will die.

Watson is sitting quietly in the visitor chair, rocking her feet back and forth. It's their anniversary day: the moment Joan Watson changed her career from a sober companion to a consulting detective. From colleague to partner; from addict babysitter to a friend; from a stranger to the person he loved most in the world.

Even though Sherlock considered his dear Watson his confidante sincerely, his actions always indicated the opposite. Coming from a family who were the best in breaking their own possessions, his self-expectations weren't high. But he isn't from the family anymore: his everything is deposited in New York.

"My dear Watson, I wanted to-" He fumbles on his words, but she gives him time.

"I apologise for everything I have done. I do not deserve your patience, compassion or partnership. At this moment, lying helplessly in a compact hospital room, I know that my life will be short. I've never thanked or acknowledged your support at every moment. I am mortal Watson, and this heart will stop beating any moment. By the time I blink, you will be gone. It will be too late. In my less than humble opinion, it has already been too late. Time never waits for a man, Watson. Before you reconsider our partnership, I wanted to thank you. Thank you for everything you have done, thank you for solving the cases solo, thank you for helping with Randy, thank you for the care of the bees, Clyde, Romulus and Remus but especially thank you for being my partner. I would have never reached this height with you as a consulting detective on my side. Thank you for all the precious years, even with the fact that I acted exceedingly childishly at certain, if not all, moments. I never deserved you, still don't and never will, Watson. I am sorry." His eyes drop, and he has never felt this overwhelmed. Sherlock's eyelids flutter close, but the pain in his back forces them open.

Joan knows how to react this time.

"I wasn't going anywhere." The room's white, but the speaker's voice is even whiter. It's trembling with hot white rage. His clothes are dark, but his face is even darker. It's shaking with cool dark stillness as every second passes. It's quite a lovely scene if the topic wasn't so very melancholy.

"I don't know what it was: some sort of defence mechanism only you are capable of, but I _told _you I wasn't going anywhere. Our partnership wasn't ending. I just wanted time to sort out things by myself."

His hands drop by his side, and she knows he is trying his best to stay awake. His blanket falls, and she jumps up to tuck it in his sides.

Before his eyes close, he utters one final line. "He was entirely correct. You are the person I love most in the world."

This time, the tears cascade


End file.
